


Direct Report

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John is dead but still quite active, M/M, Staff meetings in Heaven, angel of death - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22065268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: Death has a good job. His work has meaning. He likes his Boss. So what's the problem?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 95
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Just Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the lovely Bluebell of Baker Street, with thanks for her generous donation to the Fandom Trumps Hate auction.
> 
> HOWEVER, this is only a placeholder fic. Please see the notes below for an explanation.
> 
> This fic will be updated weekly. For now it will be Wednesdays, but that is subject to change depending on how my school schedule shakes out.
> 
> For this chapter, content warning: some discussion of human trafficking, though nothing graphic.

Senator Reginald Layton walked briskly through his office, nodding to each of the staffers who called out greetings, taking careful note of those who didn’t. He walked through one set of doors, and then another, finally reached his inner sanctum, his private study. His secretary, Cathy, sat outside the door. She’d started correcting him about her title recently--she'd been "promoted" to ”administrative assistant” a few months ago, with business cards and a pay rise and everything, but he’d stubbornly held to tradition, as was his wont. It was foolishness anyway: she didn’t really assist him with anything important, but she did keep his secrets. He paused and smiled down at her now, and she smiled faintly back, tipping her chin at the stack of messages on the corner of her desk. She looked old, he thought, noting the lines around her lips, the darkness under her eyes. Worn out. Tired.

“It’s late,” she said, and he started a little, wondering briefly, and not for the first time, if she could read his mind. Christ, he hoped not. “I left a sandwich on your desk, and the coffee’s fresh.” She stood and started pulling on her coat. “I’m headed out, if you don’t need anything.”

He shook his head. His plurality of ex-wives had taught him it was pointless to argue with a woman who was halfway out the door. “Thanks, Cath. See you tomorrow.”

His study was warm and comforting, decorated in dark leathers and deep woods and a rug that had been in his family for almost as long as he had. Cathy had left the lights off, he noticed, and made a note to say something pointed in the morning, maybe a joke about who paid the bills. He hated walking into a dark room, and she knew it. Only his desk lamp was on, spilling a pyramid of light across his pristine desk blotter. 

He closed the door and started to reach for the switch, but before he could touch it, the lights flared brightly, harshly, briefly searing his retinas. When his vision cleared, there, in one of the leather side chairs, sat a sandy-haired man, casually dressed in a cardigan sweater and khaki trousers, legs crossed and seeming completely at ease. The man smiled. “Good evening, Senator,” he said, in a British accent. 

“Good evening,” Layton said, with reflex good manners. He frowned. “Was I expecting you, Mister…”

“Oh, no,” the man answered. “No, I’m quite sure you weren’t.” He stood, moving to stand behind the desk. “You have a lovely study. Quite tasteful.”

“Move away from there,” Layton said sharply, before catching himself. “Please. Won’t you be seated.” He gestured back toward the side chairs as he moved toward the desk himself. “There could be confidential materials on my desk, you see. We generally don’t allow visitors back this far. Did Cathy let you in?”

The man chuckled. “No. Perhaps it’s you who should have a seat, Senator.” He brushed one hand through the air, as if lazily sweeping away a fly, and suddenly, Layton was seated across the room on the sofa. He looked around for a moment, confused, and started to stand, but the man began to speak.

“A gift to the modern age, the Internet,” he said, turning the Senator’s computer monitor to face him. “A modern storehouse of information. Right now it’s mostly e-mail between friends and pictures of dinosaurs, but someday…” He sighed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Well, it will be a clusterfuck, honestly.”

“I beg your pardon,” Layton said, bristling. “I am a United States Senator. I will ask you to maintain a modicum of propriety. I don't know where it's like where you come from, but this office runs on civility.”

The man dipped his head in what would have seemed like apology, if his broad grin hadn’t been visible from across the room. “So sorry, Senator,” he said, with a voice edged with laughter. “I do so respect your delicate sensibilities.”

Layton opened his mouth to reply, to bring this stranger down to size--who did this man think he was, anyway--but before he could speak, the computer monitor flickered to life. The man stepped forward and gestured to the screen. 

“Human trafficking,” the man said, quite without humour now. Images of young women, eyes wide with fear, bound with ropes and chains, flashed across the screen. “Not a phrase commonly spoken these days, certainly not in Congressional lunchrooms, or on news broadcasts, or at fundraising dinners, or in other bastions of  _ civility." _ He said the last word with excruciating precision. “But still, alas, it exists. It’s quite profitable for investors, actually. There’s quite a demand for the product, and well, as you can imagine, there’s almost no end to the supply.”

Senator Layton watched the pictures, feeling his own body grow numb with fear. He swallowed. “I don’t…”

“They’re selling these girls, you know,” the man said conversationally, and the images changed, turned darker. “Boys, too, actually. They’re used for all kinds of things. Sweat shop labour. Housekeeping. Farm work. Prostitution, of course. Now  _ that’s _ the big money maker. They’ll sell the kids in lots, usually, by the dozen or something, but sometimes one will be special in some way. Pretty, or delicate, or just really young, and they’ll go to auction. There’s a stage, and right before they shove them up there, they’ll--”

“Stop,” Layton whispered. He tried, but he could not physically move his head or close his eyes. His pulse was bounding, his mouth dry. “Please.”

The man tilted his head, considering him. “Too much  _ incivility _ for you?” he asked kindly. “Well, let’s take a different approach.” The pictures changed. “You’re a man known for details, Senator, and one exquisitely aware of the economics of your home state, so you’ll no doubt recognize these as the dockyards just on the edge of your hometown. You’ve also no doubt already noted the name on these shipping containers. It’s familiar to you, is it not?”

Layton was shaking now, awash in pure terror. He managed to shake his head. “Please,” he said again.

“Twenty-six young women and five young men were found dead in one of these containers recently. This one, in fact.” The camera focused on a single container, illuminated by the red and blue flashing lights of emergency responders. “Thirty-one individuals, and not a one over twenty years of age. Dehydration. Heat prostration. A rough way to go, but perhaps it’s better that they were spared other fates. But that’s not for me to say.” The man shrugged. “Out of my paygrade. Now, what company’s name is on this container? Can you tell me?”

Layton leaned his head as far away from the screen as he could, and gave his head a little shake. 

“No? Too hard to see? You should really get your eyes checked, Senator. But here, let me help.” The flickers on the screen froze, and the image zoomed in to a single name, emblazoned in red on the side of the container. “How about now?”

Layton shook his head again. 

“I see,” the man said slowly, in a tone of some disappointment. “All right, then, I’ll read it for you.” He stepped around in front of the computer and leaned in closely toward the screen. “Layton Enterprises,” he read, exaggerating each syllable, before straightening and turning back to Layton. “Your family business. For five generations, if I’m correct. Very impressive. Your uncle Charles is CEO right now, isn’t he? And your siblings all have places on the Board of Directors. You, of course, stepped down upon your election to the Senate--your very expensive election to the Senate--but your current wife, and your son, and your son’s wife...didn’t. Tell me.” The man took a step forward and tipped his head back toward the screen. “No arrests, no convictions. Barely even a paragraph in the local paper. Did you buy off the police chief, or did you have to go higher up?”

“I’m rich,” Layton blurted. “Me, my family...we’ve can give you anything you want. Anything. You’ll be set for _ life. _ Just...don’t. Don’t tell anyone about....” He nodded at the monitor. “That. Please.”

“Set for _ life. _ Ha.” The man shook his head. “As it happens, I’m well beyond needing money, Senator. What I really need is the truth. So tell me. Tell me, Reginald.” He walked up to Layton, standing so close Layton had to tilt his head back to see the man’s face. The man then leaned forward, putting their faces just inches apart. “Did you know?” he asked softly, searching Layton’s face. “Did you know about the trafficking? About the children?” He reached forward slowly and touched a finger to Layton’s forehead. “Tell the truth,” he said, with an unmistakable tone of command.

At first, Layton thought just to keep his lips pressed shut, but after a moment, his body started to quiver and then rock with the effort it took to stay silent. His eyes bulged, and his face grew red. Veins rose and pulsed on his temples and neck. His molars started grinding, and bile rose from his abdomen, burning the back of his throat. The man waited patiently, his finger on Layton’s forehead steady and still, even as Layton nearly convulsed on the sofa. 

After a minute of this, the man spoke. “Now.”

Layton couldn’t stop his lips from opening. “Yes,” said a voice not Layton’s own, and the touch point on his forehead blazed like a brand.

After, Layton collapsed back on the sofa, gasping for air. The man stepped back, a look of profound disappointment on his face. He stared down at Layton for several moments, and then lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Layton watched in disbelief as the man began to glow, the air around him growing brighter and brighter as a high-pitched grinding hum, something like machinery mixed with the buzz of a million angry bees, filled the room. Layton felt the heat and the sound in his body, in his bones, and he couldn’t help but cry out in fear. 

The man’s eyes turned back to him, and they were  _ red, _ as red as fire, as red as the blood that was starting to boil in Layton’s veins. “Reginald Layton,” the man said, but with one thousand voices. “You are judged and found a sinner by the Angel of Death. He takes you now, for the sake of righteousness, in the name of God.” The man spread his hands wide, and the buzz-grind-hum grew louder, so loud the walls shook, and the man’s glow was blinding, spilling out from his body, from his eyes, and Layton, cringing on the sofa, threw up one hand. 

“No,” he pleaded. “No, please. I’m sorry. Please, God, no.”

And just like that, everything was back to normal, except that Layton lay on the sofa, still and silent and very dead. The man--Death--stood above him, shaking his head. “Too late, mate,” he said, and reached down with two fingers to shut the now unseeing eyes. “Actuary?” he asked into the air. “Can I get a cause, please?”

He tilted his head as if he were listening, and then nodded. “Heart attack it is,” he said, and snapped his fingers. “You’re getting off lucky, you bastard,” he muttered.

The man disappeared. The lights stayed on.

\---

Two days later, Death scurried down the corridor and slipped into the conference room. God looked up and lifted one imperious eyebrow. Death sighed. “Sorry I’m late.”

Humour, on the other side of the impractically long table, snorted. “Ha. Death, late. Sorry, but that never gets old.” 

Conciliation gave Death a gentle pat on the shoulder as she shifted over to make him room. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “The Big Guy was late, too.”

God, of course, overheard her. “How can I be late when I invented time?” He said, and Death grinned. That one, too, never got old.

“All right, called to order,” God said, and the room slowly quieted. “Thanks to the Department of Health for the fruit tray. Man, I really knew what I was doing when I came up with the strawberry, didn’t I?”

Mumbled affirmatives came from around the table as Death made eye contact with Health and gave them a cautious nod of thanks. They’d never be friends, Death thought, though Conciliation, bless her, kept trying. She’d hosted a board game party just the week before. Serendipity had seen them both assigned to the game “Pandemic,” and yeah...that hadn’t gone well. He’d given Serendipity the stink eye on the way out the door that night. He’d never quite bought that “luck of the draw” bullshit.

“On to business,” God said, and Death sat up straight, shaking off his reverie. “Think about your status reports, please.”

From way down the table, Manners gave a little squeak of pleasure.

God closed His eyes, and the room went silent. After a couple of seconds, God gave a little hum of satisfaction. “Excellent work, everyone. Weather, coordinate with Irony on the PGA schedule. Those jerks have had it too easy for too long. Seismology, back off a bit on South America, will you?”

Seismology drummed his fingers on the table top. “Sorry, Lord.”

God shook His head. “It’s fine, just...work on California for a while, if you’re looking to stay busy. They’ve got a budget surplus, they can handle it. Human Achievement has a new Architecture subcommittee, have you two met?”

Seismology’s eyes lit up. “No, Lord, we haven’t. I’ll look them up. Dang, I’ve been wondering about that new mall in Los Angeles.”

“There you go. Just don't kill anybody. A couple of close calls would be all right, though. Get some people thanking us on TV, we could use the publicity. Now.” God leaned back in His chair, crossing His arms over His belly and taking on a look of long suffering. “Goodwill. Dude. Can you just...you know. Do better.”

Goodwill sighed. “You always say that. I’m trying, Lord. They just pick on each other over every little thing, and...well, You know. You made them.”

“You did a great job on Jesus’s birthday last year,” Conciliation offered. “All those cease fires...first rate work, really.”

“Aw, thanks,” Goodwill said, blushing. “You’re always so sweet.”

“I think that’s about it…” God said. “All right, you’re dismissed. Remember, drinks on Me in Hawaii next week.” A faint cheer went up, muffled quickly by the creak of folding chairs and the rustle of papers being gathered. Death stood quickly and turned toward the door.

“Death...a moment, if you will.” 

Oohs and whistles went up around the room. “Someone’s in trouble,” said Conflict Management in a sing-song. Death glared at her as she passed on his way out; she really was a wanker. 

Once the room was cleared, God motioned to the chair across from Him. “Good work on the last case,” He said, as Death took a seat. “That Senator was a piece of shit.”

Death nodded agreement. “Thank You, Lord.”

God regarded him. “You were troubled by it.”

“Not the outcome, Lord. I just…” Death sighed. “You know I hate the ones with children.”

“I know,” God said softly. “I am sorry.”

“It’s just...You knew, Lord. You knew he...why did You send me? You could have made that call on Your own.”

“You know how this works, Death. I set the works in motions eons ago, and I generally try to let them live their lives…”

“Free will,” Death muttered, like a curse.

“Exactly,” God answered. “But sometimes they need a little correction, a domino knocked over, and it’s been a long time since I interacted with humanity to any real extent. I just need, you know. A second opinion. Human eyes.”

“Context.”

“Exactly.” God nodded. “My priorities are...different than theirs.” 

Death nodded, thinking. “With all due respect, Sir,” he said after a minute. “It’s a bloody mess down there. You could just wipe it all out and start over. No one would blame You.”

God crossed His arms. “You really think so?”

“I suppose not.” Death had met Lucifer, once, at a conference. He still remembered the overlong handshake, the appraising stare. He pinched at the bridge of his nose. “It is a mess, though.”

God was staring at him now, and he almost shuddered with the peculiar intensity that came from being the center of attention for the Source of all creation. It was a heady, terrifying feeling. “You’ve been doing this a long time, Death,” God said at last.

Death gave a little bow. “I serve at Your pleasure, Lord.”

“It costs you. You’ve...changed.”

“Well, You know I’m dead, right?” He gave a little humourless chuckle. “So what’s the harm?”

“You could stop,” God offered. “I could find someone else.”

Death looked at Him, shocked. “Do you have someone in mind?” God had never told him how or why he’d been selected for this position. He himself tried very hard not to think about it.

God only hummed. “Do you want to take a break?”

Death thought it over for a moment and finally shook his head. “No, I’m good. What do You have for me?”

God tipped his head toward the door. “Check the board on your way out. Thank you for the time.”

“No, thank You,” Death murmured, and turned to leave. He felt God’s eyes on him as he left. 

The board had filled in during his time in Washington: War lords, gun runners, and for fuck’s sake, one fool starting a cult. Left to their own devices, many of these idiots would end themselves, Death knew. His judgment wasn’t always required. But God concerned Himself with timing as well as action, worried over the effects downstream. He’d heard, in his lifetime, the Lord referred to as a clockmaker, and he’d learned to see the truth in the name. Every gear interacted; every ‘tick’ had resonance. In the Lord’s hands, The Department of Consequences was well staffed and often consulted, even when the way of a thing seemed clear. Sometimes it seemed like overkill to Death, but then he had died in a warzone, so who was he to judge. He did his job, took his orders. Nihilism had no place in Heaven, even for the Angel of Death.

He ran his eyes down the list again, made his decision. He’d start with the cult leader. Those guys were always arseholes.

\---


	2. Causation

The Angel of Death had a problematic relationship with the Department of Probabilities. The conflict predated his tenure, and he’d done his best to keep the relationship civil, but even Conciliation acknowledged that tension was inevitable when you had two distinct entities in charge of saying who was going to die, and when.

The Department of Probabilities functioned on a purely mathematical basis, maintaining thorough records, charting every trend with care. Their focus was on the large scale, on keeping life and the end of it anonymous and balanced and randomised. Breakthroughs in medicine, weather events, improvements in agriculture, epidemics--all just variables, simulations, cells on their spreadsheets. They were responsible for ensuring things were fair, even, and impersonal. Death, needless to say, was very much not.

The Chair of the Department, a beady sort who manifested in a waistcoat, spectacles, and green eyeshade with no apparent irony whatsoever, had once mentioned that his human days had been spent selling life insurance, and Death had never been less surprised in his afterlife. Probabilities was ambitious, though, as befitted a man who had lived on commission in his human days, and more than once he’d made the suggestion that Death’s position be moved under him on the org chart. The proposals, at least the ones Death had been witness to, had been quite logical in their reasoning, sensible on a dry, analytical level. They’d also been soundly rejected. The Angel of Death had always been a direct report, a codified, baked-in agent of chaos, and that, apparently, was how the Creator of All Things planned to leave it. Probabilities didn’t have to like it, though, and Probabilities, Death knew, was a petty little bitch. For example, after the Chair’s next to last presentation, when Death had looked to the sky for a cause, he'd been given both a building collapse _and_ an outbreak of plague. He’d thought about it at his next status report, but God had just smiled and looked away. The Lord had always had a fondness for plague.

In theory, the Chair shouldn’t have even been involved. Death was allocated an Actuary for every case, and it was the Actuary’s job to assign a cause of death. A good one would call ahead to coordinate--it was easier to sell a case of cancer or a bad flu if the owner had been feeling ill for a week or two--but sometimes the case moved quickly, or the Actuary was tied up on another project, and they’d have to coordinate after the heavy lifting was done.

Now they were four days and counting since the last presentation. Death was just sitting down to research the next case on the board--white man, early 50s, homicidal tendencies--when a signal came through. He checked the caller ID, looked to the skies, and crossed his fingers. The case showed twenty hours left on the countdown. In a chipper voice, the Actuary gave him the cause: automobile accident.

Death sighed. This would be the third car accident in a row. Probabilities must be really pissed.

A streak of three car accidents was theoretically possible, of course, just looking at the numbers (humans liked to drive, and drive badly), but still. They were so much work. To pull off a car accident, especially in a city, he’d have to coordinate across several departments: Metallurgy, Inertia, Weather, Crowd Control, that arsehole in Unscheduled Events (like his job was so hard, how would anyone know if he was doing it wrong?) and of course, Traffic, that poor bastard. Every once in a while he’d get clearance to just push a Honda off a bridge, but most of the time, there was an element of work around. Car accidents were  _ exhausting, _ even for the incorporeal.

Death sighed and asked to speak to the Actuary’s supervisor. He was mildly astonished when the Chair himself came on the line.

“Problem, Death?” the Chair asked, with a deliberate air of distraction that told Death he’d been waiting for the call.

Death cleared his throat. “Good morning, Probabilities. Just wondering if I could get some rationale for this latest cause. This is my third car accident in the past week, and…”

“Over one thousand English males died in traffic accidents last year,” Probabilities intoned. “It’s completely within--”

“And over one hundred thousand died of heart disease,” Death cut in. “Come on, Chair. Quit fucking with me.”

“Fucking with you,” Probabilities chuckled. “Really. Have you even  _ looked _ at the case?”

The words were life-giving water for the tiny seed of hatred in Death’s core. “Just started,” he gritted out, looking down at the file. The words leapt out at him, and he swallowed a curse. “I see. He’s a cab driver.”

“There you go,” Probabilities said in a mocking sing-song. “Cabbie. Car accident. So glad we had this little talk. If I can help you with anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“Wait a minute…” Death said, as he dragged his finger down the page. “He’s got an aneurysm.”

“No, he...Oh.” Death heard the flutter of paper as Probabilities flipped through the chart. “Well. It’s...it’s irrelevant here. He could live with that thing forever..”

“Or it could go off at any time. And the family already knows, there’s medical documentation in place...come on. This is a slam dunk.”

“Now you’re talking like the final decision’s already been made,” Probabilities grumbled. “Aren’t you supposed to, you know, actually go down there and do your job?”

“You know, you’re right. I quite fancy a cab ride through London, actually. Covent Garden, Piccadilly...maybe the lights are still on over Regent Street.”

“You’re wasting my time here. Enjoy your vacation.”

“I will, thanks. And if it’s--” Death checked the file. “If it’s Jeff Hope’s time to die, well, pity about the aneurysm, eh?”

Death heard Probabilities draw in a long breath. “You’re such a…”

“Careful, now,” Death said softly.

The sudden silence from the end of the line was complete and profound. Death bit back a grin. He knew it was a matter of some debate among the angels as to whether his capabilities extended to the heavenly realm. He himself didn’t know for sure. He’d never tried; he’d never been ordered to do so. Angels did disappear sometimes, but Death had never asked. He’d never corrected the gossips who whispered when he walked by, either. You never knew when a little fear might come in handy.

“Have a nice day,” Probabilities finally snapped, and the line went dead. Death smirked, doing his best to ignore the fact that he’d just had his most satisfying conversation in weeks. At least the arsehole met him on the playing field. He looked out the window for a few moments, rubbing absently at his chest, and then, with a sigh, went back to the file.

Not much detail here, he noted, turning the pages. The decision seemed far from obvious, but then that’s why he had a job: to fill in the holes. To listen to his instincts. To look a person in the eye and ask himself if they deserved to die.

He sighed again. Well, he’d best be on with it. He wasn’t getting any younger.

\---

In the end, he let the cabbie go. The man made his stomach crawl, but his hands were clean, even if his soul was--smudged, somehow. He’d never actually killed anyone. Death wasn’t sure why he’d made the board.

God absorbed the status report, gave Death a long, inscrutable look, and then told him to take the rest of the week off. 

\---


	3. Coats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late post here. Next week will see us back on schedule. 
> 
> I feel I should discuss tagging for this fic a bit. This is a story about the Angel of Death. People around him die, and sometimes he's directly involved. It's kind of right there on the tin. I'm not sure if I need to tag for each kind of death, but I think I'll post a note at the beginning of each chapter that has a death in it with a warning, just in case.
> 
> I haven't called out MCD, but I think it's pretty obvious who Death is. If you have strong feelings about that tag here, please let me know. And, please. If you feel _anything_ needs a formal tag, call it out in the comments or send me an email at callie4180 at gmail. 
> 
> \---
> 
> This chapter: oblique reference to a school shooting (NO CHILDREN ARE INJURED) and a seal (yes, the animal) who has a close call.

Candor jogged into the conference room, grabbing a donut from the box on the table as he rounded the table to settle into his usual seat. “Oh, gross,” he said, his mouth full of pastry and sprinkles. “This is Heaven, for fuck’s sake. Can’t we get some fucking Krispy Kremes?”

Conciliation gave him a look. “The Department of Mediocrity was in charge of treats this morning.”

“Oh.” Candor gave a man down the table an abashed grin. “Uh, thanks for the donuts, Average.”

“I did my best,” Average said sadly.

“Morning, everybody!” God entered the room with His usual burst of sunshine and settled in at the head of the table with a sweep of His white robes. “Quick meeting today, I think. Status reports?”

The department heads went still. Death felt the subtle buzz behind the eyes that told him God was taking a minute to rummage around. He’d given up minding the intrusion long ago, and anyway, it never took long. This time, though, he felt a soft pat on his knee and heard a murmured “well done,” even though the Lord was a good ten metres away and looking the opposite direction. He tipped his head in acknowledgment of the praise. He’d averted a school shooting yesterday, a horrible case with a horrible man at the center of it. God hadn’t even called him in to give him the case, had just sent him a message to grab his sword and teleported him directly into the heart of it. Death hadn’t hesitated for a moment, but, twenty-four hours later, he was still a little shaky. If he’d still been human, he’d have been sporting one hell of a hangover right now. He felt Probabilities’ eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. He knew he was figuring in the status reports from several departments today; that was only to be expected. Sword Events were, as a rule, very messy. 

“Okay, just a couple of things,” God said, breaking into his reverie. Death shook his head a little and tried to focus. “First, Outer Coverings. Excellent job with that white giraffe calf in Kenya yesterday. Social Media told me people loved it, just  _ loved _ it. Great positive energy there. Nicely done.”

Outer Coverings smiled shyly as a blush painted her cheeks. “Thank you, Lord,” she said shyly. “Genetics helped me with it.”

From across the table, Wonder sighed and raised one hand to their chest. “Oh, my. An albino giraffe. How delightful.”

“Technically, the calf isn’t an albino,” Genetics cut in. “We gave it a condition called leucism. It’s a recessive trait, in this case a mutation of the  _ mitf _ gene. It’s why the calf still has dark eyes. Leucism can affect all pigment types, not just melanin, and--”

“You might as well have mutated a target onto its back,” Probabilities muttered. The table went silent. “I’m sorry,” he said incredulously, “but have any of you  _ seen  _ the shitty survival rates of white animals in tropical environments?”

Outer Coverings sniffed twice, lowering her gaze, and Death narrowed his eyes. He quite liked Outer Coverings. She’d arranged for him to get the Barbour shooting jacket he favoured on Earth. 

God, too, seemed displeased. “If only there was someone around here,” He said tightly, “some sort of, I don’t know, Deity or something, who could ensure this gift to nature has a long, comfortable life.”

Probabilities lowered his head. “Of course, Lord,” he muttered into the table. “Sorry, Coats.”

God glowered for an additional few seconds before returning His attention to the rest of the table. “The second announcement is that Music will be presenting the next entry in her very entertaining ‘Battle of the Bands’ series this weekend at the Amphitheatre. Up this week: Jimi Hendrix versus David Bowie.” God blinked and looked up. “Wow, Music. That’s a fantastic matchup.”

“Thank you, God!” Music trilled. “You won’t believe what Mr Bowie has planned.”

“I never did,” God said dryly. “Who’s up next?”

“Next week, it’s back to the Golden Oldies: Johann Sebastian Bach, and…”

“Please don’t say it,” Conciliation muttered.

“...Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!”

Conciliation groaned and banged her head down on the table. Death had to smother a grin. She’d had to take a week off to recover after the last time Mozart appeared, that time in competition with Ludwig van Beethoven. It had taken all her considerable skill just to keep the performers from coming to blows. Mozart was quite a crowd pleaser, but he was also a notorious trash talker who wasn’t above sawing halfway through the leg of a competitor's pianoforte to win. 

“All right, I think that does it for this week. Good work, everybody.” Everyone rose at once and headed for the door, but Death felt an invisible Hand on his shoulder, and kept his seat. “How was Antarctica?” God asked, when the room had emptied.

“Cold. Quiet. There’s not much to do there, of course. I just...kind of walked around for a few hours.” Death gave a pressed-lip little smile. “No guns in Antarctica, you know. I’m sorry I didn’t clear it with You first.”

God gave him the look that Death always thought of as His “don’t be an idiot, I’m omniscient” look. He remembered getting that look more than once from his mother, back in his living childhood. “I’m glad you went,” God said. “Though I rather hoped you’d seek out some company once you got back. Get some consolation from a friend or two. You don’t always have to go it alone. I hope you know that.”

Death blinked, caught off guard. “I--It’s hard, You know, after the…” He mimed slashing a sword through the air. “I’m not sure I’m fit for company after that. Not for a while, anyway.”

“Yeah.” They sat quietly for a minute or two. God was very good at sitting quietly, Death noted. “I saw the thing with the seal,” God said at last.

“Aw, damn.” Death hung his head. “I figured Probabilities would probably be screaming at the door of Your office this morning,” he admitted.

“He messaged Me at home, actually. Something about the balance of nature and the delicate interdependency of all living creatures, blah blah blah. I’m pretty sure he quoted Tennyson in there.”

It took Death a moment. “Nature, red in tooth and claw?”

“That’s the one.”

“Bloody...sorry, Lord.”

God shrugged. “You surprised him. He doesn’t like surprises, you know that. One seal off on a spreadsheet is a catastrophe.” He leaned forward and looked into Death’s eyes, studying him. “You saved a life. You, Death, saved a life. Why did you do it?”

Death had been thinking about this. He wasn’t sure he had an answer. “I don’t know, Lord. I just did it. It felt...right, somehow.” He leaned back in his chair and blew a sigh toward the ceiling. “I saw those big eyes, felt its fear. Saw that killer whale slashing through the waves. The seal was so alone in that moment, Lord, and I just had to do something. It just...something told me it wasn’t his time.” He lowered his head then and looked God right in the Eye. “Am I losing it?” he asked directly. “Am I burning out?”

God stared back. “No…no, you’re not. You’re still as effective as you’ve ever been. But I’m wondering if I’m doing right by you, Death. And I need to think about that.”

Death nodded, looked down at the floor. “I serve at Your pleasure, Lord,” he said, with a tinge of melancholy.

He felt God’s Hand on the back of his head, and he closed his eyes, finding comfort in the weight of It. “You’re a good and faithful servant,” God said. “Mankind is lucky to have you. Those kids yesterday were lucky to have you.”

_ "Those kids _ were afraid of me,” Death said, spitting the words into the floor. “I was only there to help. I saved them, Lord, saved their lives, and they--they were  _ terrified. _ Not of that bastard with the gun, but of me.”

God drew in a deep breath. “I know,” He answered, and Death felt the truth of His knowledge, sensed the pain behind it. “They won’t remember you. I hope that helps.”

“I--it does, I think. Thank you, Lord.”

After a moment, God removed His Hand. “But about the seal...Probabilities does have a point there. I’ll need you to fix that, Death.” 

“Yes, Lord. I’m already on it. I messaged Marine Life and she helped me figure out how to balance the resources down there. We made sure the whale didn’t go hungry, set some extra fish eggs to hatch, boosted the krill...it should be all be back to normal by now. It was nice to work with her again.”

God hummed. “She’s good, Marine Life,” He said thoughtfully. “She helped you with that drowning case, yes? What was that, like a decade ago?”

Death nodded. “Actuary wanted to backdate the time of death. Marine Life lent us some, I don’t know. Watery chewing things.” He gave God a little grin. “This job was a lot easier before universities started offering Forensics classes, you know.” 

“Tell Me about it.” God leaned back in His chair. “You okay now?” He asked softly. 

Death sighed. “I think so.“ He studied his nails. “I think it came out all right in the end,” he offered cautiously. “I mean, justice  _ was _ served.”

“I’m very pleased,” God said, with a bit of reverb. 

Death shivered. “Thank you, Lord,” he whispered. 

A quiet moment passed between them. “I’ve got one for you, if you’re up to it,” God said, finally. “It’s an easy one. A drug dealer.”

“Ugh,” Death said, rolling his eyes. “I hate those guys. Can’t You just make the ruling?”

God shook His head. “I need you there.”

“What’s special about this one?”

“I need you there,” God repeated, and Death felt the command sink into his body. This probably wasn’t the day to pick a fight, he thought, and nodded.

“Of course, Lord. Thank You.”

"London,” God said, pushing His chair back. Death hurried to stand, and stepped aside to let Him pass. God paused at the door. “I’m sending someone along with you,” He said.

Death frowned deeply. This was unprecedented. “An observer?”

“No, not in the formal sense. You’re not being evaluated, Death, you’re doing fine. No, just think of him as...an intern.”

“An intern,” Death repeated. “You’re sending an intern to work with the Angel of Death.”

“Yes, well,” God winked. “I’m quirky like that.” He walked out, and less than thirty seconds later, a young man, round and pink, came skidding into the conference room.

“Hi,” the man panted. “Am I late?”

\---


	4. The Dealer and the Orange

The two angels sat, invisible, on the back of a disgusting sofa in a flat in Tottenham. The intern’s eyes were wide, and he kept swiveling his head to look around, turning from side to side in a fashion that reminded Death of nothing so much as an owl, or possibly an old style oscillating fan. Death, for his part, kept his eyes on the dealer. The flat was nothing interesting, but the dealer was, without a doubt, a skeevy bastard. As the intern exclaimed over the flowerpots in the window, Death saw the dealer slip the diamond earrings from the lobes of a well dressed woman who was so strung out she could barely keep her eyes open, saw him strike a young man just for the pleasure of it. Still, though, there was nothing here that explained why he’d been called in. Drug dealers tended to see themselves out, as it were. It was usually only a matter of time. He’d just decided to give the case five more minutes when, as the intern cooed at the sight of a mug of tea brewing on the sideboard, a woman came in, tall and neatly dressed.

The dealer slumped onto the nearest flat surface, the seat of a rickety, plastic-covered chair next to the kitchen table. “What you here for?” he slurred in a barely intelligible fashion, though Death could see it was mostly an act. He wondered if the woman could see it, too. 

“I need a...little something to help me get through the next couple of weeks,” the woman said, twisting her hands in front of her. “I’m close to finishing my degree, just putting the last touches on my research, and, well. It’s going to be a lot of work, and not much time for sleeping. A colleague of mine at the lab told me you could help me out.”

“At the lab,” the dealer repeated. “Would that be at UCL?”

The woman blinked, surprised. “Yeah, it would. I’m a PhD candidate there. Why?”

The dealer glanced over at a closed door just off the main room with a sly smile. “No reason, ducks,” he said. “As it happens, I got something special for you right here. Only the best.” He pulled a packet out from his shirt pocket and held it up to the light. “This’ll set you right.”

“Great,’ the woman said with some relief. “How much?”

The dealer licked his lips. “One hundred quid.”

“Wow. That’s...a bit more than I was expecting, honestly.”

“Take it or leave it.” The dealer shrugged. “Your call, Doctor.”

The would-be buyer bit her lip, thinking for a moment, before giving a brisk nod. “All right, then,” she said, and pulled out her wallet.

Death felt a tingle up his spine; someone, or Someone, was telling him to pay attention. He leaned forward, observing closely. The intern, who hadn’t stopped talking since they’d transported to the flat, finally fell silent and mirrored his position.

The buyer started counting out her money. The dealer moved as if to look away, but he couldn’t quite seem to take his eyes off the buyer’s wallet. “What you studying, then?” he asked, as the woman frowned down at her banknotes.

“Uh, I’m in medical research. Pharmacology.” The buyer transferred the money from her billfold into one hand and started digging in her pockets with the other. “I’m working on a cure for a particular kind of blood cancer.”

The dealer snorted.  _ "You’re _ going to cure cancer, are you?”

Death felt that tingle again, but the buyer only shrugged. “Some cancer, maybe. Some day.” She held out the stack of dirty, ragged notes. “This is all I have on me. Ninety-five pounds. Call it square, will you, mate?” 

“Hmm. I’ll need to think.” The dealer reached into the fruit bowl on the table, picked up an orange, and started to peel it. “Want an orange?”

The buyer gave him a quizzical look. “Uh, no. No, thank you.”

“Just a slice? They’re hard to get this time of year, you know.” He held out a piece of orange in his grimy fingers. “You sure?”

Disgust flashed across the buyer’s features. “I appreciate it, but no. I need to get going.”

“Well, it’s your loss, innit. But remember…your health is the most important thing.” His voice took on a nagging kind of sing-song quality, and Death couldn't help but roll his eyes. “You gotta take care of yourself. Fruits and veg are your friends.”

The dealer slipped the orange slice into his mouth and started chewing widely, letting an obnoxious snarl of a smile take shape around the edges of his gnashing teeth. The buyer had just started to look away when the dealer made a sharp choking noise. He coughed once, and then again, clutching at his throat, gagging, as his face turned first dark pink and then a violent shade of red.

“Jesus, man, you okay?” The buyer took a step toward him, hand outstretched to help, but the dealer, still gagging, reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun. He flailed, rather than aimed, it in her direction, but Death had already flicked the safety on with a twitch of his little finger. The buyer didn’t know that, of course. “Shit!” She backed up, her eyes wide with panic. She paused, looked around, and, seeing no other options, ran for the door. 

The dealer continued to struggle, falling to the floor. Death hesitated, but then stretched out his hand toward the little kitchen. “Silence,” he whispered, and the sound of the dealer’s struggles abruptly went quiet. Death tipped his head toward the ceiling. “Actuary?”

After a moment he nodded and sighed. “Acknowledged,” he said, and slumped against the wall, reaching a hand up to rub at his eyes. The intern looked from Death to the dealer and back again. 

“Are you...are you just going to let him die?”

“Yeah,” Death said, sounded defeated. “This was how and when he was supposed to go, believe it or not.”

“It wasn’t you, then?”

“No,” Death said. “I’m only here as backup.” He closed his eyes, probing the room for signs of life. The dealer had already passed, a small mercy. Whoever came through the door next would find him and call the police, or maybe they’d grab his drugs, take his money. It wouldn’t be Death’s problem; his work here was done. Sometimes the cases were like this--he’d be nothing more than an observer, sent in to make sure a death went off as planned. Privately, he found this quite frustrating, a waste of his time, but it was part of the job. The Lord working in mysterious ways and all that. 

Although...as he jumped down off the couch, Death realised that God had never before personally dispatched him on a secondhand case. Not even once. Death’s brow furrowed as he glanced around the room. It really didn’t make sense. As a rule, God was rather jealous of Death’s time and attention, and the case board, he knew, was full. He frowned down at the dealer as the Couriers appeared and started to prepare the newly unbodied soul for transport. Was this just as it seemed on the surface, an unsatisfying case? Was he being punished for his misadventure in Antarctica? Was he missing something?

Puzzled, distracted, he turned to leave. He headed for the front door, the intern close at his heels, and passed by the closed door to the room just off the kitchen. As he walked by, he felt the same frisson as before run up his spine yet again. 

Death stopped short, not even noticing the intern’s near impact and sharp intake of breath. He examined the door: unmarked, unlocked. The hallway held no other features of interest, but the subtle prickle of the signal still echoed in his body so, after one last moment of hesitation, he reached for the doorknob.

Inside, he found a man lying on his side, motionless and pale, so pale that Death automatically reached out with his sensors  _ (alive). _ The head was turned away from the door, toward the smeared, grimy window; Death couldn’t see the man’s expression, but he did take a brief moment to appreciate the head of thick, mahogany curls. He’d always wanted hair like that. The body bore no visible wounds or blood, and the room, furnished only with a smelly reclining chair, an over-full rubbish bin, and the mat on which the man was lying, showed no signs of struggle. The only clue to the man’s condition was an uncapped syringe lying haphazardly on the floor, a meter or so from the long, thin outstretched fingers. Death frowned and took a couple of steps closer, kneeling just at the edge of the mat and reaching out to take the man’s narrow wrist. The pulse was thready, too fast, almost stuttering, and the man’s breathing was shallow, just the barest puffs of air. He looked down at the man’s profile. He was...he was beautiful, there was no other word for it. An aristocratic face, with high cheekbones and full lips, a delicate, perfectly formed ear set in amongst that riot of hair, a long smooth neck...this man would be a sculptor’s dream. And--the pulse under his fingers skipped once, and again--this man was dying.

The thought came to him clearly, not a command, just a fact: this man  _ couldn’t be allowed to die. _

Death didn’t release the man’s wrist as he sat back on his heels and cursed. He wasn’t supposed to interfere outside a case, not ever.  _ Ever. _ What was he thinking? Hell, his arse was already on the line because of a fucking seal. He sighed, only just resisting the temptation to trace one of the silky curls. It reminded him of a flower bud, doomed never to bloom by winter frost.  _ I’m sorry,  _ he thought. _ I’m so, so sorry. _

Another soft puff of air through those lips. The skin of his wrist smooth against Death’s fingertips. Well, it wouldn’t be terrible if… There’d be no harm in… He’d only just...he’d just  _ ask. _

“Actuary,” he murmured into the room’s chill air. There was no response. “Actuary,” he said again, more loudly. “I need a confirmation.” Again, no answer. Death looked up to the ceiling with growing exasperation. “Hey! Anybody up there?”

He heard a rustling behind him. Shit, he’d completely forgotten the intern. “Um, Mr Death, sir?” came the intern’s timid voice. “Can I help?”

Death looked back to the body. The man’s gorgeous mouth dropped open, letting out the barest whisper of a sigh. He could feel the life in the man’s body starting to wane; the next breath could very well be the last. He looked down at that face, the hair, the lips, and somewhere deep inside of him a tiny spark of rage flickered and caught. He felt a surge of energy, hot and bright, in his core. The decision, he realised, had been made. His skin began to tingle with heat; he had to act quickly.

“Kid, get the hell out of here.”

“Uh..what?”

Death whirled around, feeling his eyes starting to simmer, his skin start to glow. The air around him was beginning to buzz; he felt the taste of it, metallic and sharp, in the back of his throat. “I said, get out.  _ Now.” _

The intern squeaked and did as he was told. Death put one hand on the man’s forehead and the other over his heart and closed his own burning eyes, summoning every bit of that hot energy from his core. He’d never really understood how this worked, but he felt the power in his hands and in his body and in his skin and with everything that was in him, every sound he’d ever made, every thought he’d ever had, every day he’d lived and every day since, he drew in a deep, deep breath and  _ pulled _ the death out of the man’s body.

Then, fingers still tingling, his head still abuzz, he fell to his side and into darkness.

\---

Death blinked awake some time later. It might have been a minute, might have been an hour--he never slept, hadn’t since he died, so he figured, distantly, it was all right to be a little confused. He raised himself up on his elbow and looked blearily around the room, focusing slowly on the filthy window, the ugly chair, the overflowing rubbish bin. Oh, right, he thought, his head still fuzzy. The flat, the dealer, the buyer, the chair in the kitchen, the orange, the gun, the...

His eyes opened wide. Oh,  _ right, _ he thought, and rolled over to find the man lying a few feet away from him. He rose to his hands and knees and crawled over to the man’s side. The man’s skin was pinker now, and--Death laid a cautious hand on his arm--warm to the touch. The respirations were deep and even, and the pulse was steady and strong. “You’re going to cause me no end of paperwork, not to mention a proper bollocking from God Himself, so you’d better be worth it,” he murmured. As he stared down at the man’s face--that beautiful, beautiful and still breathing face--the eyes blinked open. Death couldn’t help but stare. Those colours existed in nature, he knew, but he’d never seen them like this, alive and clear and curious.

The man’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

Holy hell, that voice. Rich as sin. Death had heard nothing like it, even in Heaven’s own choir. He had to smile. “I’m the Angel of Death,” he replied. He might as well, he thought. No one ever believed him anyway.

The man reached up with long fingers to his own neck, placing the first two across his jugular furrow. He frowned. “Well, you’re apparently quite shit at your job.”

“Ha, ha,” Death said, rising to his feet. The man followed suit, and Death looked him over. “Feeling okay?”

“I suppose,” the man said slowly. “Tired, maybe, and...hungry?” He looked surprised, as though that was a word he’d read but never heard spoken aloud. “I definitely don’t feel high, though, which considering our surroundings…”

“Oh, shit,” Death said, remembering again the dealer, the orange, the gun, _hell._ “You’ve got to get out of here. Go.” He lifted one hand and pointed to the door. “Go  _ now," _ he said, letting just the tiniest bit of imperative leak in. 

To his credit, the man managed to hesitate before turning toward the hallway. Death was impressed: not many could put up even that much of a fight. He took one last moment to watch the man stumble into the hallway, swallowing regret as the man staggered out of sight. He'd done what he could, more than he should have; the man was alive, and that would have to be enough.  _ Be good, _ Death thought after him, allowing himself one last second of wistfulness as he transported himself to the street outside. 

The intern was waiting for Death in front of the deli on the corner. “Are you going to get in trouble?” he asked.

Death leaned back against the wall, digging his hands into his pockets and regarding his own shoes. It had been a rough couple of days, and he was tired. He sighed. “Almost certainly.”

The intern frowned. “So why’d you do it?”

A police cruiser came racing around the corner, its black and white chassis a blur as it streaked by them and screeched to a halt in front of the dealer’s apartment building. Death watched for a long minute, thinking of blue sky, grey clouds, and green ice, of chilled skin, of unexpected hunger.

“It wasn’t his time,” he said, finally. He nodded at the pub across the street. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”

\---


	5. Recreational Nutrition

The beer was cold and bitter. Like looking in a mirror, Death thought, smirking as he took a long pull off his pint. From the corner of his eye, he could see the intern shifting nervously on his barstool. 

“I didn’t know we were allowed to drink,” the intern murmured, frowning down at his beer. “We’re setting a bad example.”

Death sighed. “You know, God didn’t have much to do with all that ‘thou shalt not’ ten commandments BS. Not His style. Relax, mate. He won’t hit the smite key on you for having a pint at the end of a long day.”

The intern frowned even more deeply. “Smite key?”

“It’s a figure of speech.” Death paused and considered. “Sort of. Look, lighten up, okay? Look at it this way: the worst that could happen to you already has. You’re dead. You’re post-dead, even. So you might as well enjoy a beer.”

“Well, I guess.” The intern took a sip and looked up, his scowl replaced with a faint smile. “That’s pretty good, actually.”

“Innit?” Death reached for the snack dish. “Drink up, lad. Next round’s on you.”

“But I don’t have any money.”

“Yes, you do.” Death glanced in the direction of the intern’s jacket pocket and made a little flick of his finger. 

The intern reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty pound note. His eyes widened. “Wow. Can we all do that?”

“Well, now.” Death leaned back on his stool. “Now that you mention it, I have no idea. Try it.”

The intern braced himself on his seat and flicked his own finger. The serviette in front of Death crinkled up and smoothed a couple of times before a package of Smarties appeared on top of it, sliding as though it had been tossed from a few feet away. The intern looked disappointed, but Death was delighted. “Ha, fantastic! I haven’t had these in ages.” Death opened the package and tossed a few of the candies into his mouth, crunching with obvious delight. “Want some, kid?” he asked, holding out the bag. “You’ll not find these in the vending machines upstairs, more’s the pity. The chair of Recreational Nutrition told me once that he was afraid that God might see them as some sort of Noah’s Ark commentary. Rainbows, you know. You won’t find any Skittles up there either.”

The intern lifted an eyebrow. “Recreational Nutrition?”

“Yeah, nice guy, Snacks. Takes his job a bit too seriously, though. I brought Devil Dogs to a staff meeting once, and whoo, boy.” 

“I bet.” The intern took another sip of his beer. “So the Ark thing isn’t a problem?”

“Not in and of itself, no. It’s the unicorns you don’t want to mention. Word to the wise.” 

The intern chuckled as he reached across to steal a single piece of candy. “You know, Mr Death, you seem awfully calm for a man who could soon be facing the literal wrath of God.”

“Yeah, well,” Death said, around a multi-coloured mouthful. “If He was really angry, I’d be upstairs already. This--” He gestured around the pub. “This is actually a good sign.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Death shrugged. “I’ve been working with Him a long time.”

The intern swallowed. “Have you...have you always done...you know. That?” He waved one hand in the direction of the dealer’s flat. 

“Oh.” Death looked down at his half-empty glass. “Yeah.”

“Wow.” The intern hesitated. “How did...did you..apply for the position?”

Death had to laugh at that. “Apply? You think I’d apply to…No. No, mate. I was  _ recruited." _

“Wow. I just--I can’t imagine.” He sat quietly, staring down at the bar, and Death took the opportunity to look around the room. This pub had the old stained glass windows over the door, almost certainly coated with lead and weighing a fair bit. These shivered just a bit in their panes when the door opened and shut. You could kill a man with windows like that, he thought, watching the light from outside shimmer through the colours. Loosen a couple of screws, slam the door once and boom. He’d have to remember to mention the possibility to one of the more liberal-minded actuaries. He didn’t imagine it would make the playlist, but it never hurt to try. At the very least, he’d get a laugh. 

A pretty blonde woman slipped by him, her fair hair catching his eye; his eyes followed her as she greeted two friends who’d just come in with hugs and kisses. Two men cursed loudly at the football on the telly. Half a dozen women dressed for a hen party lifted their glasses in a raucous toast at a back table. Ah, but Death loved pubs. They were loud, and hot, a bit smelly as a night wore on, and for the price of a drink or two, he could sit at the bar and remember, faintly, how it had felt when he’d been alive.

A gentle nudge of his elbow brought him back to the present. The intern slid a fresh pint in front of him, smiling apologetically. “You looked like you were pretty far away there.”

“Oh, you know. Just shuffling through some old memories.” He heard the intern catch his breath and turned to look at him, curious. The intern’s eyes were wide.

“You have memories?” he whispered. “Of before you…”

“Um...yes,” Death answered, his eyes narrowing. “Of course I do. Why, don’t you?”

“No.” The intern shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

Death was perplexed. “Really? No memories at all?”

“Well, I mean, I remember some things, right? Like, I remember biscuits, but I don’t remember the taste of them, or how they felt in my mouth, or…” The intern held up his pint glass, still full. “I know I’ve had beer before, but I don’t remember where or when, or if I liked it then. I know I wore jumpers to school when I was young, but I couldn’t tell you what colour. I remember storms, the ideas of them, I guess you’d say, but I don’t remember if I got scared at the sound of thunder or how it felt to get wet in the rain. I...I remember being happy, but I don’t remember what  _ made _ me happy, if it was rainbows, or biscuits, or beer, or my mum, or if God, you know, just gave it to me. I’ve just got the feelings. I don’t remember the rest. And, Death…” He put his hand gingerly on the sleeve of Death’s jacket. “It’s like this for all of us. Everyone upstairs, we…don’t remember.”

How had he not known that? Death stared at him for a long moment, his mind spinning. It made sense, he supposed, on some level. Not that they didn’t remember, but that he  _ did. _ He’d need the lessons of his experiences to make judgments. He could hardly know what it was like to make a human decision if he couldn’t remember being human, after all, all the messes and surprises and pleasures and bloody  _ feelings. _ The passions. The temptations. He remembered them all. Everything. 

Even the pain of his own death. 

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because the intern scooted his barstool a little closer. “I’d understand if you don’t want to answer this, but...do you remember how you died?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. I do.” Death sighed. He had good reasons for preferring to work alone, and this kind of question was one of them. But the intern was staring at him expectantly, so: “I can tell you, if you want to know.” 

The intern nodded. “Please.”

Death looked down at his hands and took in a deep breath. “Right. Well. I was a doctor. An army doctor. I died in combat.”

“An army doctor,” the intern repeated, low and serious. “Wow. Where?”

“Afghanistan. I’m British, after all. It was there or Iraq.”

“When was this?”

Death rubbed his chin, letting his hand rest lightly over his lips. “Been a decade or so now, I reckon,” he said through his fingers.

“You really don’t want to talk about this, do you,” the intern said with a faint smile. Death blinked at the kindness in his voice. “You look tense. You don’t have to.”

“It’s fine, mate. Why not.” Death lowered his hand and gave him a weak imitation of a smile. “I’d always been more of a soldier than most medics over there, if that makes sense to you. Running toward explosions, bullshitting my way onto transports headed for the front. I craved action, you know?” He hunched over his pint glass, talking down into the bar. The intern leaned in even closer. “I thought of myself as a hero, but I can see now that it was just--hormones, I guess. Hormones, and hubris. But the thing was, I was good at my job. _ Damn _ good. And as long as I was saving lives, the C.O. was willing to look the other way.

“One day, our unit was out on patrol and we came up on a convoy that had been ambushed. Two of the guys cleared the scene and then I went charging in to see to the wounded. Didn’t even hear the gunshots until one of my own boys went down. It was a set up, you see. A trap. An ambush within an ambush. And...well. They were damn good at their jobs too, I guess.”

The intern was frowning with what looked like concern. Death fell silent for a long minute, thinking, before continuing. “I was a crack shot, as it happened. Good hand-eye coordination. The boys used to tease me about it, about ‘luring me over to the Dark Side.’ And now the enemy was right up on us, and we were all yelling and shooting--until the medic, Bill, went down. He was American, and a Quaker, you know. A pacifist. He’d never even touched a gun, only did what he could to help, and I didn’t...They’d hit him in the leg. It was bad. I couldn’t even  _ see, _ I was so fucking angry. How dare they. How  _ dare _ they try to kill this man. I didn’t even think...I just pulled out my gun and shot his killer dead as I was dropping to my knees to try to save him. Anyway, I got the blood cleared away enough to see and got a clamp on the vessel--blown femoral artery--and as I straightened up to reach for my kit for some suture, bang.” He slapped a hand up over his own shoulder. “Right through the shoulder. From some distance, too. Guess they’d called in snipers as back up. Hell of a shot, really.” 

“Damn,” the intern whispered. “Did you kill him?”

Death blinked. “Who?”

“The sniper.”

“No, mate, I was down.”

“No, I mean...after.”

“Oh. No. Had enough to get along with, what with…” Death pointed upwards. “You can’t imagine the training.”

The intern let out a low “woof” as he sat back on his stool. “He could still be alive, then. Theoretically, I mean.”

“I suppose.” Death threw back the last few drops of his beer. “I’ve never even thought about it, honestly. I do know he never showed up on the case board. I assume it was handled. ” He shrugged briefly. “I trust God.”

“Because you have faith in Him,” the intern said, nodding solemnly.

“No, kid. Because I’ll go mad if I don’t.” Death stared down at his empty glass. “You asked if I applied for this job, and I didn’t,” he said at last. “And I try not to think about things like this, but I  _ have _ wondered at times if it wasn’t the dichotomy of my actions that day that drew the Lord’s attention. Killed the enemy, saved my comrade. Death in one hand, life in the other. The balance of it all.”

“Like at the dealer’s house,” the intern said, nodding. “You had to let the dealer die, but you saved the other guy.”

“I saved the buyer,” Death corrected. “I planted the idea of pulling the gun in his head, to get her to run. She’ll never even think about buying drugs again, I’d wager. But she’s clean today at least, and that’s one step closer to that cure of hers.”

The intern crossed his arms and regarded him. “For an Angel of Death, you sure seem to try to save a lot of lives,” he said, a faint smile on his lips.

“Hey, now,” Death answered with mock severity. “Don’t let that shit get around. This job is hard enough as it is.” He tipped his head toward the door. “You ready?”

Outside, Death drew in a deep, long breath. The night was cool and crisp. The emergency vehicles were long gone, on to the next drama, Death supposed. The dealer’s window was dark, and Death let his mind wander to the tall, dark haired man who’d stumbled alive out of that flat and down this street. Death had never seen that much beauty in one body. He’d not soon be over the memory of finding him near death on the floor in a dodgy drug dealer’s flat, especially, if as he suspected, Probabilities went screaming into God’s office like a missile first thing tomorrow morning. On the bright side, at least the seal would be forgotten, and hey, he’d spared someone who might just come up with a cure for cancer. That was good, right? God hated cancer.

Still. Ugh. Tomorrow was going to suck. 

The intern came up behind him, zipping up his jacket. “You’re a good listener, kid,” Death said over his shoulder, as they turned in unison toward a dark alley. “Have you considered applying to the Department of Prayer?” 

The intern hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know if I’d be up for it. People pray when they’re desperate, or sad, or scared. You have to just listen. It would be hard not to be able to just fix everything.”

“I get that, but sometimes people pray when they’re happy, too. Prayers of thanks, or joy. People pray about everything. It balances out. It’s important work.”

“I guess. Did you pray when you were human?”

“Just once.” Death stopped and looked up at the sky. It was a clear night, but not Afghanistan clear. “God said no, and here I am.”

“Mysterious ways,” the intern murmured. “Mr Death...do you remember your name? I mean your real name. When you were…”

“Alive.”

“Yes.”

Death drew in another breath of the cold night air. He nodded toward the alley, and they both slipped into the shadows. He thought of black skies, of sand that shimmered and shifted under a full moon. He still got angry when he looked at the stars.

“Watson,” he said at last, and dug his hands into his pockets. “My name was John Watson. Let’s go home.”

\---

  
  



	6. The Magic Kingdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, feels a little bit wrong to be posting when the world is on fire and while public figures are hurting my friends and family. I hope revisiting this world gives you a few moments of peace.

God leveled a steady Look at Death from across the desk. “You,” He said, “are really beginning to piss Me off.”

Death looked around, surprised. Last he remembered, he’d been standing in an alley down the street from a London pub, taking a deep breath and thinking of his room Upstairs. Damn. He’d hoped for a little more time, maybe an overnight to prepare. He lowered his eyes to the desk blotter. “I’m sorry, Lord.”

God lifted one eyebrow. “For?”

“For…” Death considered. He was screwed, and he knew it. “Well, You know. All of it, Lord. I fucked up.”

“That’s not good enough.” God slapped His Hands down on the desk, and the vibration shivered its way through Death like electricity. “Death, you know the rules. In and  _ out. _ You can’t just go messing with people’s lives to suit you. _ Free will, _ remember?”

Death hung his head further. “I know, Lord.”

“I mean, having that dealer wave the gun around...okay, maybe. I could take a very, very liberal definition of your purview,  _ very _ liberal, and make that work. But the other one, the overdose kid…” God looked up toward the ceiling, blew out an exasperated breath. “Why didn’t you call for confirmation?”

Death raised his head, confused. “But Lord, I did. No one answered.”

God blinked. He didn’t speak, but Death felt the hollow rumble in his chest and belly that he knew meant God was checking for falsehood. The feeling was unpleasant, not unlike nausea, which Death had always assumed was by design. God really, really hated lying.  _ That  _ particular commandment had probably been straight dictation. Death opened his hands, spread his arms wide-- _ yes, Lord, do as You will _ \--and stood straight and still, staring ahead.

After a long moment, the discomfort eased. The Lord leaned back in His chair, looking troubled. “No answer,” he murmured, letting His gaze drift toward the window. “No answer.” He lifted one elegant Hand and tapped absently at His lips as He thought, and Death was mesmerised by the motion. He was used to the Lord just  _ knowing, _ not processing.

God let the silence sit between them for a few long minutes. “Did you...see anyone else?” He asked at last, uncharacteristically quiet.

Death blinked. “Anyone else? No, Lord, it was the dealer, the student, and then the kid in the other room. Oh, and the intern. No one else.”

“No one,” the Lord echoed. “Not in the street, or the pub, or…”

“Lots of people, Lord, but no one in particular. You know how it is in London. People everywhere, but no one around.”

The Lord hummed and looked back to the window. Death watched him openly, curiously. He hadn’t seen God out of sorts like this since...since ever. He shifted uncomfortably. “Lord...are You...all right?”

God didn’t look away from the window. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“Well, forgive me, Lord, but You seem, well…”

God waited. 

“Pensive,” Death finished. 

“Ha.” God stood, clasping His Hands behind him as He walked around the desk. He stepped up close and looked down at Death, frowning. “Take a few days off,” He said. “Keep a low profile. I need to look into a couple of things.”

Death suppressed a sigh. It felt like he'd been sent on holiday a lot lately, but he knew a command when he heard one. “Yes, Lord.”

“And don’t, you know, save anything, all right? Stay away from seals and junkies. Just--have a beer. Watch some sunsets. Eat a taco. Relax.” God narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do anything I’ll have to explain to Probabilities. Promise?”

“Promise.” Death nodded. “You’ll let me know if I can help, though.” 

“Sure. I’ll send the intern to find you.” For the first time, God cracked a smile. “I think he’s got a bit of a crush. Go on now.” He waved His Hand toward the door.

Death fretted his way down the hall until he reached the little sitting area in front of the lifts. When he’d arrived for his first job interview, he’d been baffled by the stiff sofas, the bland paintings of seashells and sailboats, the small dish of wrapped mints on the too-low lacquered table. It had taken him several meetings to recognize and begin to appreciate God’s peculiar sense of humor. No time for peppermint today, though; he’d barely stepped into the room when the lift doors slid open. The button for the ground floor was already illuminated. God really wanted him gone, he mused, staring at his face in the silver doors as the lift began to move. Maybe there was more to all of this than he realised. 

But he’d been given his orders. Off on his own, again. Well, then. Where to go. He hadn’t been to Africa in some time, not since the rush after the Ugandan civil war. A safari would keep him busy, and he always enjoyed wildlife, so that was one option. Or the Caribbean; now, that was a thought. Clear water, white beaches, drinks with umbrellas...he couldn’t get drunk, but he could appreciate the idea of it. Or...something completely different. Iceland. It would be beautiful there this time of year, cold and forbidding. He didn’t get many cases in Iceland, a mystery he’d always wanted to explore. He could tour the Golden Circle, soak in the Blue Lagoon. If he called ahead, he could probably get Special Effects to turn on the Northern Lights. Lightshow was really sweet; they’d worked well together on a lightning strike case. 

Still deep in thought, he stepped out of the lift and headed for the lobby. He glanced up at the three-storey-high video screens that lined the back wall, flashing images of beauty and majesty from around the world. Death had thought the wall a little vain of the Lord at first, though of course, He was entitled. But still, he’d seen Me Walls in the army, rows of pictures of officers with high ranking officials, politicians, or celebrities, so he’d just assumed a giant video screen displaying the wonders of creation was a Deity-level version of the same thing. He’d been pleasantly surprised when, during the campus tour in Orientation, Intake had pointedly relieved him of that notion: it hadn’t been God’s idea at all, and in fact He’d initially hated the thought of it. However, Flat Surfaces had persisted, and God had finally been won over at the thought of a giant screen, basically adjacent to His office, that could show sporting events with immaculate resolution. God, as it turned out, was a huge Fan of women’s football, and He’d show up for the rugby World Cup as well. To the Lord, the images on the screen the rest of the time, the animals and flowers and landscapes, were just filler, but to the rank and file, those pictures were beautiful reminders of everything they were working for. 

So now, in breathtaking clarity, dolphins danced across sparkling water; palm trees waved in a soft breeze; flamingos nibbled, inverted and awkward, at brine shrimp. Foam lapped at a black sand beach. It looked nice. He’d seen a beach like that years ago, while on a case in the States. Somewhere on the East Coast, Georgia, maybe, or Florida... 

Florida. Death slowed, stopped, and laughed out loud. Of course. He tipped an imaginary cap toward the oversized flamingos. Oh, perfect. Where else would the Angel of Death go on holiday?

Disney World.

\---

Hot, steamy, green, bright: Death had forgotten what being outside on earth could feel like. 

He took a long drink from his orangeade and adjusted the mouse-eared beanie atop his head. He’d thought briefly about having his name embroidered in loopy gold writing along the back and the notion had been enough to keep him smiling for an entire hour. Really, he was giddy with the silliness of it all, the music, the rides, the costumes, the entire park. Even the daily smash of a thunderstorm had made him yelp with laughter while he scurried for cover in an over air-conditioned shop just off Liberty Square. 

There were so many children here. Death found himself watching them, throwing up a bit of a shield so he didn’t look too creepy. He didn’t often deal with children in his line of work, and the cases when he’d been forced to had all too often called for the use of his sword. That was the reality of his job, and he’d never felt the lack of little ones. But now he watched their bright smiles, appreciated their vivid clothes, heard their giggles and shrieks, saw the wonder in their eyes, and was forced to realise that on some level, he had in fact been missing out. They were human flowers, the children, bursts of colourful joy, little seed pods of vitality. He really needed to get out of the office more. Even the Angel of Death needed a breath of life once in a while.

He was considering the menu at The Plaza restaurant when he overheard two grandfatherly types talking at one of the tables. They’d obviously set up camp here, paying the auto club-discounted admission fee for the right to lean their canes against uncomfortable fake-leather banquettes, nurse coffees, and guard the various treasures their generations of offspring brought back to them proudly, as if they’d been acquired through conquest. Now one took a slurp of his coffee and grimaced. “I don’t know, though,” he said. “Seems like they’re making a lot more fuss than they should, you ask me. Damn persecutors with nothing better to do than cause trouble.”

“Persecutors? Oh, prosecutors. Ha. Same thing, I suppose.” The other man, older, with a plaster along the side of his nose and a Korean War Veteran ball cap sitting too widely over his thinning hair, shook his head. “Man killed somebody, though, Jimmy. Lots of people, if the papers are right. Seems like justice needs serving. The electric chair is too good for the likes of him.”

Death couldn’t help but shift a little closer. He had a professional interest in stories that included phrases like that.

Jimmy shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. But we’re not seeing much evidence, are we. Seems like a lot of this is circumferential.”

“Circumstantial.”

“Whatever. The point is, someone’s trying to hang a tonne of shit on that boy, and it’s just sliding off. It’s all a big waste of time. And money, too.  _ Taxpayer _ money. He’s got them fancy New York lawyers.” Jimmy pointed his finger with the vehemence of someone who had never been wrong. “The government’s just spitting into the wind. He’ll get off, Ralph, and we’ll never know the truth of it.”

Ralph slumped a bit over the table. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the way of it, I suppose. Still, the man sounds like a right bastard.” He sipped his coffee. “Ugh. This coffee is shit.”

Bobby lifted his eyebrows, his gaze carefully fixed on the woman sweeping up trash by the rubbish bins. “There’s beer on the menu, you know,” he said, almost off-handedly.

Bobby crooked a grin. “Is there, now. Ah, but Ruth would have my ass. Kidneys, you know.”

Ralph didn’t meet his eyes. “Good diagnetic, beer. Makes you pee like a racehorse.”

“Diuretic, you mean. Hmm.” Bobby pursed his lips, looked thoughtful. “Now that is a thought. I mean, surely one wouldn’t hurt.”

“Might even help.” Ralph jerked his head toward the counter. “First one’s on me.”

“You’re on,” Bobby laughed, and Death didn’t stay to hear the rest of it. He went inside, ordered a bag of French fries and two IPAs, and applied just enough imperative to get the spotty young man behind the counter to deliver the beers to the old men with a wish for their good health. Then he slipped out through the side exit, found a shady spot, and considered both his snack and where he might be able to find a newspaper. Disney didn’t really seem inclined to let bad news through the door, and God almost certainly had someone monitoring his phone use. “Sorry, Mickey,” he murmured, as he crumpled up the wrapper. No one could fault the Angel of Death for wanting a peek at a capital case, not even God Himself.

Death paused and looked up at the sky. A fluffy cloud floated by, and he nodded once, satisfied. Just as he thought. Not even God Himself.

\---

Death didn’t have to go looking for a paper, after all; he heard all about the case on the radio in the taxi back to his hotel. Frank Hudson, club owner, local investor, man about town, had just gone on trial for murder, extortion, and (Death felt his hackles go up) human trafficking. The old men, in their colloquialisms, had been correct. By all accounts, the prosecution’s case was not going well. Frank had, in fact, landed some fancy lawyers from Manhattan, whose tactics had left the local attorneys spinning. The media were collectively delighted, both at the spectacle and the scent of governmental blood. Despite himself, Death felt himself nodding approvingly at the lack of evidence, the complete absence of crime scenes, weapons, or corpses that would link the man to the mayhem. Even the motives being ascribed to the accused were foggy, best summarised as “Frank is a bad guy, and this person annoyed him.” Most likely the truth, but damn hard to prove. If Frank Hudson ever made it into heaven, he’d almost certainly be made an actuary. When it came to hiding a death, the man was a natural.

He was also a criminal, a murderer and a pimp. Death was surprised he’d never made the board.

Back in the hotel, Death clicked on the TV and flopped down onto the bed. He probably shouldn’t even look any further. He’d gotten the basics, and he was on holiday, after all. He still hadn’t gotten any sand between his toes, hadn’t seen nearly enough good looking people in tiny swimsuits. He had two days left in his three-day pass to the Magic Kingdom, and he’d heard good things about the bakery in the French exhibit at Epcot. After that, he’d been thinking of driving down the coast: playing a little golf at the PGA National Resort, checking out the nightlife in Miami, maybe heading on down to the Keys to get a Cuban sandwich and meet Ernest Hemingway’s cats. In fact, he’d do that. He’d pretend to get a night of sleep--Americans did tend to notice things they shouldn’t, like a bloke skipping meals and staying awake overnight--and then he’d head out with the sunrise to go see the sights.

Mind made up, he watched Frank Hudson’s wife on CNN, a delicate looking English rose with worried eyes and pressed lips, shrinking away from the cameras as she walked through the courthouse doors. “My husband is innocent,” she proclaimed, a quiver in her voice. Death paused the picture with a flick of the finger, zooming in to look closer. It wasn’t as easy to read people through a screen as it was in person, but Death saw what he needed to know. “Huh,” he said, his eyes drifting involuntarily toward his room’s little closet. 

Even the wife knew Frank was guilty, and oh, who was he fooling.

Death took a shower, threw his kit into his duffle bag, and checked out of the hotel. “Red-eye flight,” he said, and the man behind the counter winced sympathetically. A couple of blocks away, Death slipped into what passed for an alleyway here, a small walkway by the delivery door of a sandwich shop. He raised one hand, poised to snap. He wasn’t going to interfere or anything, he swore to himself. Really.

\---


	7. Outside the Courthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Another update? 
> 
> I'll be going to back to work soon, so I'm trying to get as much done on this fic as possible while I can. I appreciate your patience. Hope all is well with you and yours. Take good care.

Charitably, the American court process was a clusterfuck. This wasn’t Death’s first go-round with a murder case, not by a long shot, but he was always surprised by the craven ambition of the lawyers and the utter cluelessness of the juries. After a day of observing arguments from the back of the courtroom, invisible to all, one thing was perfectly clear: Frank Hudson was going to walk. 

It took a lot of energy to keep himself hidden, so after court was adjourned for the day, he slipped into the loo to shimmer into corporeal form and walked out through security without even a second look. Outside in the sun, he stood at the top of the stairs and looked over the mass of reporters in front of the Miami-Dade County Courthouse.

The attorneys for both sides spoke directly to the cameras, pleading their cases to the public while trying to impress any future employers. The media jostled for position and shouted leading questions as the lawyers determinedly stuck to their scripts. Death sighed. This would all play out like a hundred capital cases before. Looked like a future trip back to the Sunshine State to do a little clean up was all but assured.

Death started to turn away, but from the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of mahogany hair shimmering in the Florida breeze atop a slender frame and patrician profile. Death stopped and looked more closely. Surely it wasn’t.

It  _ was.  _ Death wasn’t often surprised, but really the last person he’d expected to see here was the beautiful young man he’d rescued in the dealer’s flat. The one man who’d made Death break the rules. The one human who knew who he really was.

_ Shit. _

He turned to run, but it was too late; the man had already spotted him and was moving toward him, determination in his frown.

The man stepped up close and looked down at him from his substantial height. Damn, but he smelled good. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, but there was no denying the beauty of that precision-carved face, the intelligence in that focused steel gaze. Death took in his curiosity and signaled back his own, eyebrows lifted, hands slightly outstretched. The man studied his face, intent, and Death waited.

Finally the man spoke. “You,” he said, in a voice laced with honey and razorblades.

Death nodded. “Hello.”

“You’re...here.”

“Yes.” Death tipped his chin toward the courthouse. “Were you in the courtroom today? I must have missed you.”

“Oh. No.” The man took a half step back and gave a little shake of his head, smirking. “But I hardly needed to be there, did I?”

Death made a little questioning sound. The man, Death could tell, barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. 

“Well, it was the turn of the Defense to present witnesses today, so let me guess. Many low-ranking politicians and upstanding business types all speaking to the defendant’s great business acumen and many charitable works. Probably at least one priest, as Mr Hudson is Roman Catholic; a risky strategy in the American South, but I’m sure they found just the right priest, someone whose ecclesiastical charisma and approachability fell somewhere between, say, Richard Chamberlain and Montgomery Clift.” Death was sure he didn’t miss the hint of blush on the man’s cheekbones, but he didn’t interrupt. “A former instructor, probably. Most likely a music teacher, piano, violin, who could speak to her pupil’s average talent bravely overridden by sheer grit and determination. An early employer: ice cream shop, paper route. No content, no controversy. More to the point, very little to elicit on cross examination. No, the only interesting thing about today was who didn’t testify, and I didn’t need to be here to see that.”

“Who didn’t testify.” Death frowned back at the crowds of reporters. “You mean Hudson.”

“Frank Hudson, the defendant, yes. And who else?”

Death cocked his head curiously. “Hudson’s wife,” he answered slowly.

“Exactly.” The man beamed. “Martha Hudson, nee Sissons. Housewife and part time bookkeeper. Lovely woman, actually. Used to work as an exotic dancer. I’d become intrigued by this case, and decided, quite cheekily, to just show up at her door one afternoon. We ended up having the most fascinating conversation over a pot of tea and some rather delicious scones. She’s a brilliant judge of character.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Well, for one, she likes me.” The man offered him a bright smile. 

Death had to chuckle. “And she also knows her husband is guilty.” 

The man nodded. He didn’t seem surprised at Death’s certainty. “Precisely. She’s a compatriot of ours, you know. Born in Edgware, college in Bristol. Came to America looking for adventure.”

“And ended up falling in love with a criminal. Quite the adventure, yeah.” Death rubbed his hand along his chin. “But...I’m not really your compatriot. At least not any more.”

“Right. You’re the Angel of Death. So obviously you live in whatever passes for Heaven.” The man enunciated clearly and precisely. “We’ve met before.”

“Okay. Right, we...right. And you’re...fine with that?”

“That’s a fair question, actually.” The man looked down at Death, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’d almost managed to convince myself you’d been a hallucination. From what I remember of my intake that evening, my perception of my surroundings could well have been distorted. You wouldn’t have been my first, um, imaginary friend, if you’ll pardon the term. But the memory of you persisted, making me suspect your existence had at least some basis in reality, and well. Here you are today.”

“And you’re sober right now?” Death teased.

The man didn’t smile. “Stone cold sober. I spent an absolutely appalling twenty-eight days in rehab to be able to say that, so I  _ do not  _ joke about it, believe me. It was tedious in the extreme.”

“You don’t say.” Death was impressed, and rather relieved. He’d risked God’s wrath for the man, after all; at least he’d gone on to make a change for the better. He wasn’t sure which of his many questions to ask, so he went with the one most relevant to him personally. “And you’re confident I’m, um, what you said before?”

“Hmm. Again, I do wish it wasn’t so, begging your forgiveness. Your existence requires the reexamination of many beliefs I had convinced myself were false. But I am certain of two things: one, I am standing here, alive--” He languidly lifted one hand and placed two long, elegant fingers on the jugular furrow of his own long, elegant neck. That neck...Death only barely managed to hold back a whimper. “Confirmed. And two, I’m aware I took a frankly terrifying amount of cocaine on the night under discussion, laced with what I’m now fairly certain was pharmaceutical grade fentanyl. To state it baldly, I should not be alive today. Even if I had survived, no doubt after some heroic measures by the medical profession, I should have suffered at least some long-lasting ill effects, most likely cognitive. That most certainly isn’t the case, ergo, something, or someone, stepped in to save me from my worst impulses. You weren’t there, and then you were. Supernatural providence seems most likely. When one has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Death crossed his arms. “And I’m not impossible.”

“Well, you as an entity clearly are not. I see you. I hear you. As to your veracity, I suppose I cannot say.” The man frowned. “I do hate repeating myself. I trust the point has been made.”

“Well. This is unprecedented.” Death chuckled. “I’ve never had a living person know who I am before, and live to tell the tale.”

“Your secret is safe with me. Were I to speak it, I’m fairly sure I’d be committed to a locked ward. Let me just emphatically state what I’ve already implied: Even if I am hallucinating, even if I am  _ stark raving mad, _ I am  _ not _ going into hospital again. I will kill myself first. So. Here we are. Hello, Angel of Death.”

Death shook his head. “They just call me Death, you know.”

“I see.”

Death waited, but the man didn’t say another word, just nodded once and went back to watching the melee below them. Death gave it a full minute. “Fine. Do you have a name?” The man looked back to him, eyebrow raised and Death grinned. “Don’t mean to be rude. Only we have this custom where I come from, where you exchange names when you meet. It’s quite handy. Everyone knows who everyone else is, and they can actually use their names to address…”

“Oh, do shut up. Of course I have a name. It’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” He offered a hand to shake, and then pulled it back almost immediately. “Oh. I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s fine. We can touch. I won't burn you, at least not unintentionally.” He offered his own hand. “A pleasure, Sherlock Holmes, if that is your real name.”

“It is.” Sherlock took the hand firmly and shook it once. His hand was large and warm. “But I can hardly call you Death, now, can I. Not in what passes for polite society, anyway.” He gestured at the crowd below them with a sneer.

Death nodded, thoughtful. “It is a problem, isn’t it. And yet, it is my name.”

“Well, we can get around it, I suppose. I mean, I haven’t spoken my brother’s name in years. I find it summons him.” Sherlock’s face brightened. “Ah, here we go.”

Death looked around. “Here we go...where? What?”

Sherlock leaned in a bit more closely and lowered his voice. “See there? The man with the manila envelope?”

Death scanned the crowd until he found the man in question: young, scruffy, wearing a ball cap and hoodie, wheeling a new-looking bicycle with one hand, and carrying a document-sized manila envelope out in front of him in the other. “Okay, yes. But why…”

“Just watch.”

Death nodded, and both watched as the young man approached the prosecutor, who was just tying up her closing remarks. The man walked up, nodded a hello, and thrust the envelope at her. Death saw rather than heard what he said: “Delivery for you, ma’am, regarding a matter of great importance.” The prosecutor took the envelope and opened her mouth to speak, but the man just nodded once, expertly wheeled his bike around, threw his leg over the seat and was off in a matter of seconds. The prosecutor looked after him for a moment, then turned her attention to the envelope. As the crowd of reporters began to dissipate, chatting about the case, no doubt, laying odds as to the outcome between suggestions of where to go to lunch, she opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of paper.

“Photographs,” Sherlock murmured, just as Death opened his mouth to ask the question. “Affidavits. Documents linking Frank Hudson to various pieces of undeveloped and unoccupied real estate. Tax returns. A veritable wealth of information that was all conveniently misplaced during Discovery.”

Death watched as the lawyer flipped through the papers, her eyes growing progressively wider. She was standing on the stairs of the courthouse alone by the time she reached the last page. She looked up, after the delivery man, and then around, as though she hadn’t realised all the reporters had left. She bent to pick up her briefcase and, hugging the envelope of papers to her chest, turned to go back into the courthouse.

“She’s a good lawyer,” Sherlock said as she passed. “Inexperienced, maybe, marginalised by her gender, but she’s thorough and indefatigable. She should be able to pull all this together. Honestly, a couple of phone calls and two hours with a backhoe at one of those properties should see Frank Hudson’s ticket punched once and for all.” He glanced over at Death with an annoyed look. “You’re laughing. Why are you laughing?”

“It’s just...the way you said ‘backhoe.’” Death  _ was _ giggling, though he was trying hard to stifle it. “Anyway. Well done, I suppose. But where did you get the information?”

“Oh, from here and there,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. “Shall we grab some lunch? Wait, do you eat?”

“I do eat...but wait. Sherlock, wait,” Death called after him, as the man strode away on those damnably long legs. He sighed and ran after him. “What’s going to happen to Mrs Hudson, then?” he said, as he caught up. “You said you liked her.”

“I didn’t say that. I said she was a good judge of character.”

“Ah, you like her and you know it. It’s written all over your face. But her husband has done some terrible things. It’s going to hurt her if he goes down.”

Sherlock stopped and turned around to face him. “I do like her. And she  _ is _ a good judge of character, now. But when she was younger and shopping for a man to marry, well. We all make mistakes.” He crossed his arms, and his expression was calm, but Death could sense the anger beneath his words. “Frank Hudson is, at his core, a monster. He has lied, cheated, destroyed and killed to get to the point he has in life. And when things haven’t gone his way...he brings his work home, shall we say. And his wife has borne the weight of that, with her body as well as her spirit.”

“Bastard,” Death spat. Sherlock gave him a look of pleased surprise.

“Quite so. But there’s another thing to know about Martha Hudson, and one that Frank never learned to his great detriment: she’s very good at paperwork. Documents, record keeping. Mrs Hudson keeps everything. Everything.”

“I see. Why didn’t she say anything?”

“Wives can’t be compelled to testify against their husbands here. And she was afraid that if he did get out of this, he’d come after her. I must admit, her concerns would be valid if the evidence weren’t so damning.”

“So you’re sure he can’t buy his way out of this.”

Sherlock shrugged and started walking again. “He can try. He might find that his resources have become quite depleted over his time in jail. Mrs Hudson did her best to take care of everything, but, well.” Sherlock turned around briefly, still walking, to wink. “She’s only a woman, after all.”

“A bloody brilliant woman, sounds like. Good on her.” Death nodded, impressed. “So where’s the money gone to?”

“Utilities. Home repairs. Automobile upkeep. Legal fees. And of course, not all of Frank’s debts were through legitimate providers. Mrs Hudson was highly encouraged by Frank’s peers to keep his payments current and his name clear. Not much documentation in that world, sadly. Difficult to prove she’s telling the truth, impossible to prove she’s lying.”

“Pity.” Death shook his head, smiling. “So where’s the money gone to?” he asked again.

“Mutual funds and London real estate,” came the prompt answer. “A solid combination of cash and higher risk investments. Shell businesses and DBAs. Trusts upon trusts upon trusts. It would take a particular kind of genius to unravel all of it, and I’m rather busy at the moment.” Sherlock gave him a sideways grin. “I lived with my brother for a while after rehab. He’s a professional liar. Knows how to use all the tools. I learned quite a bit.”

“Professional liar?”

“Politician. Same thing.”

“Ah.” They stopped at the door to a tiny Chinese restaurant. “So you’ve got the whole situation well in hand. As a fellow justice professional, I commend you. But…” Death held up a hand, very nearly touching Sherlock’s chest. “He’ll get the chair, you know,” he said softly.

Sherlock nodded, looking solemn. “Yes. I know.”

Death took a tiny step closer and searched Sherlock’s face. “And you’ll be able to live with that on your conscience?”

Sherlock looked him directly in the eyes. “Offering lessons?”

Death stared for a long moment, then nodded. “Fair enough.” He tipped his chin toward the restaurant door. “Go on, then. I’m buying.”

Sherlock’s face brightened. “Excellent. And you can tell me all about Heaven.”

“Can’t, actually. It’s against the rules. But I can tell you all about Disney World. Close enough?”

“Ugh,” Sherlock groaned, as he walked through the doorway. “God, no.”

Death paused, looked up at the sky, and shrugged. “Sorry,” he mouthed. It wasn’t technically a violation, but God could get a little touchy about the whole “in vain” thing. It never hurt to be careful.

\---

From a series of chaise lounges in Key West, Death kept an eye on the news. The prosecutor must have gotten her backhoe. Frank Hudson got the chair. 

Just a few hours after the verdict was announced, as he sipped a tequila sunrise poolside, he watched footage of a pinch-lipped Martha Hudson boarding a plane to London, a tall, attentive young man with impressive cheekbones by her side. Mrs Hudson refused all comment. Death was sure they’d be breaking out in smiles and popping champagne in first class.

The next morning, he was watching ESPN during breakfast when a chyron beneath the baseball scores informed him his holiday was over and he was being recalled Upstairs.

Death was more than relieved. It was time to get back to work.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Bluebell is a kind and generous soul who allowed me to choose basically anything I wanted to write for her auction prize. What I want to write for her is a sequel to my 24 fusion (Real Time), but as that will require a great deal of time and planning, I need to make sure I have large blocks of time. That won't be possible until next summer. 
> 
> SO.
> 
> This is my public pledge that I will be writing Bluebell a 25 chapter fic next summer. 
> 
> I wanted to check off the box, though, so here's this weird little thing. I hope you enjoy it.


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